So, I had surgery earlier this week to remove my gallbladder and I’ve been recovering since then. Unfortunately, that means I have to miss out on all the parades this week. Before going into the surgery, I spoke with my doctor and actually asked him, “So… there’s no way I can go to the Saints parade tonight, right?” And, bless him, he did everything he could not to say no outright. “Well,” he said, stretching it out for a day and a half. “Even if your friend drops you off and parks, even if you don’t have to do any walking, you’re going to find it very hard to stand for very long and people will be nudging you and pushing you. You’ll be very uncomfortable.” I sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m not going to go.”
Earlier, when scheduling the surgery, I’d spoken with him about any dietary changes I might have to consider. I’d sworn to my friends I *was not* giving up spicy food, no matter what. “You’ll do what the doctor tells you to do,” Jamey insisted threateningly/lovingly. My mamma mia! had her gallbladder out years ago and she was told she’d have to change her diet significantly. She’s remained convinced ever since that my love for spicy food is to blame for the stomach trouble I’ve had for years.
Luckily, my doctor refuted that. My diet won’t have to change significantly (at least once I’ve recovered), which is also good news. When I’d brought it up with him at the scheduling, I’d mulishly said, “Cause I’m going to India later this year and crawfish season is coming up. I don’t want to give up spicy food.” He said I wouldn’t have to. “So, I can still wait for the last batch of crawfish at the boil?” I asked and he laughed and said yes, if I’d recovered from the surgery.
Once, at Beck’s favorite Thai restaurant, I was called “Spicy Girl,” by our waitress. She warned me that what I’d ordered was really spicy and I said, “Great, bring it on! I like it spicy!” This from a girl who’d once never really eaten spicy food. I was raised by a German and an Irishman, from Ohio and Indiana respectively. I think parsley and some black pepper are about as spicy as we got growing up. But moving to Louisiana, embracing the cuisine(s) around me, changed all that.
At Indian restaurants, the waiters eye my super fair skin when I order lamb vindaloo and warn me how spicy it is. I have to assure them that no matter how red I turn, no matter how much my eyes water, I like it spicy.
The evening after my surgery, I selected one of the cans of soup I’d bought the day before. While waiting for the soup to heat up, I picked up the can and my eye caught on the little label – “zesty!” Oh no. I was told to eat a bland diet while recuperating. I thought I’d selected some safe soups, but apparently a zesty one found its way into my shopping cart. So I warmed up some safer chicken soup instead and contented myself with thoughts of the crawfish boils to come.
So what’s a girl to do when it’s too cold to go out, when she’s too weak for the parades rolling oh so close to home? I’ve been doing a lot of reading, some writing when my mind’s clear enough. I did my taxes last night, which was an adventure.
Undergoing this surgery is one reason why I was so affected by this piece about a woman who’s saying she’ll marry for health insurance that I stumbled upon this week. It explains just why we need a better system of health care in this country in a nutshell, gives the issue a very personal face.
And I’ll leave you with some fun Saints stuff, since I missed the parade on Tuesday (I got to watch it on t.v., though!):
Drew Brees (and son Baylen) make a very cute diaper commercial.
New Orleans was the place to be for the SuperBowl. (I didn’t have to say it, they did!)